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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25455649">> Tink: Homecoming</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princeliest/pseuds/Princeliest'>Princeliest</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fantroll Shenanigans [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ableism, Abusive Relationships, Ashen Romance | Auspistice, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Casteism | Hemophobia (Homestuck), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Gen, Murder, Original Character(s), POV Second Person, Trauma, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:46:51</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,670</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25455649</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princeliest/pseuds/Princeliest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Tink is a revenant, but they are also a blueblood and possess the self-respect that being a highblood entails. Sometimes, that means making sure to keep well-dressed. Other times, it means meeting somebody that wants to threaten their clade and beating him to death with his own weapon. Now, if only their ashmate could show them the least bit of the gratitude they deserve for being so considerate - and if only they weren’t so <i>hungry</i>.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Fantroll Shenanigans [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969234</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>> Tink: Homecoming</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a three-year-old drabble from my fantroll RP days that I was inspired to spruce up a little and post, and probably the edgiest thing you'll find on my account. It's also the only Homestuck work I'll ever post on AO3, because my friend said, and I quote, "POST IT SO I CAN READ IT YOU FUCKING COWARD I LOVE TINK." Love you, Cloudy. &gt;:)</p><p>  <b>Background Information:</b> Cherie Tinker (Tink) is a blueblood revenant who died and became a zombie when their corpse was infested with a fungal parasite endemic to Alternia. Due to the nature of their death, they retained significantly more sapience than the average zombie. They live in an inn that functions as a rebel halfway house in the middle of the Alternian desert, together with their limeblood ashmate Izopop Hollie (Izzy), who is masquerading as a yellowblood. Their relationship is codependent and toxic, and rife with a history of emotional abuse that dates back to before Tink’s death. While Tink is currently free to roam, they spent a very extended period of time locked in the basement of the halfway house for ‘you are a person-eating zombie’ reasons by Izzy and are pretty traumatized about it. Izzy, in turn, faced extended emotional abuse at the hand of Tink and their former kismesis Mal when he was taken in by their crime crew upon being found abandoned and half-feral without a lusus.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’re leaning forward over the bathroom sink, peering at how your veil sits on your face - because goodness knows you’ve lost a good chunk what used to be a perfectly handsome face to parasitic mushroom growth after you died, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still look <em>nice</em> - when something crashes loudly in the front room of your halfway house. You blink, straightening up.</p><p>“Well, then,” you wonder aloud. Your ashmate Izzy isn’t here, and he isn’t usually particularly clumsy. The inn has no guests.</p><p>You’re perfectly veiled, well-dressed to avoid trouble should a zombie-fearing stranger see you. It’s the ideal opportunity to investigate. When you make your way to the front room, there’s an oliveblooded stranger snooping behind the counter.</p><p>“<em>Excuse</em> me,” you intone, draping yourself across the doorframe so that you’re half-hidden behind it. “Do you have a moment? I just wanted a second opinion on this veil - you don’t think the fabric is too stiff, do - oh, dear!”</p><p>Hiding behind the door frame doesn’t stop the invader from striding forward and grabbing your upper arm, yanking on you hard enough to fling you out from behind it. Your claws scrape on the frame as you’re pulled away, and you laugh.</p><p>“Well! Awfully strong for an oliveblood, sir!”</p><p>Strong, but hamstrung. Possibly literally - he shoves you face first into the wall by your shoulder and his arm circles around to press a knife up to your throat (honestly, what is it with oliveblood riff raff and <em>knives</em>), but from what little you can see with only one eye available, he’s solidly favoring his right leg. Useful.</p><p>“Awfully mouthy for someone with a knife to their throat,” he shoots back, grinning, and you shrug as best as you can in your position.</p><p>“Technically,” you offer, “You hadn’t had that out quite yet when I - ah, ah, please don’t!”</p><p>He presses the knife in closer to your jugular, and you whine petulantly at the sting when a trail of something warm runs down your throat. This is a new scarf! And he’s hurting you - you haven’t even done anything yet.</p><p>He grimaces at the noise. “What kind of blueblood are you?”</p><p>“A civilized one,” you snap, “That doesn’t go around getting themselves knifed!” A lie, technically, but not your most audacious, and one that nets you a chuckle.</p><p>“Whatever,” he says. “You stayin’ at this inn? I’m lookin’ for a yellowblood that comes around here often enough. Tall, L-shaped horns. Owe him a one-on-one with my friend, here.” He shifts the knife, and you gasp at the slip-slide of blade and skin before your throat suddenly hurts <em>more</em>. “’Less you want to have that talk <em>for</em> him?”</p><p>Your fingers are shaking, and every exhale bring a small, embarrassing sound of fear with it as your voice box gets halfway locked-up. You’re no pathetic, stuttering fool, though, not like Izzy, so you push through.</p><p>“He’s the innkeep. What do you want with him?” you breathe. It would be very, very easy for his knife to slip in a way that would be very, very bad for you. It’s practically halfway in your throat, already.</p><p>“Like I said,” is the reply you get. “Private chat, on the behalf of a couple friends of mine what met ‘im the other week. He got a girlfriend with him?”</p><p>You make a face, half snarling and thankful he’s at a bad angle to see you do it. That must be a reference to Cateex Samash, the girl Izzy’s been blatantly crushing on flushways for the past perigee. Really? What is Izzy even doing with her these nights? (He said she’s broken her arm. You want to rend it off for her. Her interest may be in a different quadrant, but she’s still encroaching on what’s yours, and she hasn’t had the courtesy to ask, first.)</p><p>“Oh, yes,” you purr, suddenly struck with mirth as an idea comes to you. “A little yellowblood, <em>just</em> like him. Honestly, she’s so green that she’s practically <em>lime</em>. I wouldn’t be surprised if she-”</p><p>You’re interrupted by the wooden shutters on one of the front windows slamming. They’ve been loose all week, and Izzy hasn’t gotten around to fixing them yet. Fucking layabout. Too busy talking with <em>Cateex</em>. Since when does Izzy like talking? He’s hardly competent at it. Regardless, you’ve become used to the noise - your attacker, unfortunately for him, is not. His knife slips away for just a moment as he flinches.</p><p>Well. You’re probably not getting much more out of him, anyways.</p><p>You twist your head to sink your teeth into the fleshy thumb-portion of his hand, and he howls, dropping the knife. Then you drive an elbow into the soft of his stomach and punch him hard in the nose.</p><p>He’s big enough that he doesn’t do much more than stumble back, wild-eyed and looking all the more enraged thanks to the claw-like scars on his face. His nose is bleeding. You don’t expect him to move as fast as he does, and the taste of troll blood on your tongue is - heavenly, but distracting enough that you get yourself knocked into the wall when he swings at your jaw.</p><p>Now there are two flavors in your mouth, but your hands aren’t shaking anymore.</p><p>You’re not especially interested in prolonging this and getting yourself hurt further, so you draw your leg back and kick him as hard as you can in his bad knee. You’d do it with your heel, usually, but you’ve been trying on a new pair of boots. Steel toes, and all.</p><p>He goes down like you wish he had the first time, and when he hits the ground you stomp on his knee again, then one more time until you hear a crack. There are tears beading in the corner of your eye from the blow he hit, but by the time you’re done, he’s sniveling and trying to drag himself away, so it’s practically even.</p><p>“Not even gonna show decency and use your strife weapon?” he moans, and you hum lightly in the negative.</p><p>“My strife,” you inform your stranger, pressing your boot down on his belly until he grunts. You bend down to pick up his knife. “Is a very large gun. I’m afraid it would be a tad bit overkill.” And the accompanying tomahawks wouldn’t accomplish what you’re aiming for, here. There’s nothing quite so humiliating as being threatened with your own weapon, you’ve found, and you crouch down until you can tap the tip of the blade against his bottom lip.</p><p>“You’re very rude,” you tell him, “And I want to make it clear why I’m hurting you. Your first problem is that you picked a fight with a blueblood. I know you grew up in some filthy, windowless hivestem with thirty other sacks of lowblood offal, and so I can’t expect you to be particularly informed, but we’re a lot stronger than we look, you know. <em>You</em> should have brought a gun.”</p><p>You reach for one of his wrists, dragging his arm in front of his face, and then you simply squeeze your fingers around it until you can feel the bones grinding together.</p><p>Then you squeeze some more, and hum to the tune of the snap-crackle-pop that ensues.</p><p>To his credit, the oliveblood cringes, but then gathers himself enough to spit in your face. You snarl, shoving the knife into his collarbone. It only takes you a moment to realize that you’ve plunged it right where Nebuka had nicked you the last time you met them, and then it’s with savage glee that you twist it sharply. You may not have been able to hurt Nebuka back properly, but you’re not above taking it out on <em>this</em> miserable bastard.</p><p>This, understandably, prompts more howling, and you grimace when you pull the knife out and it’s coated in olive. You’ve managed to muck up the bandaging preserving your fingers with it, and then also your cloak when you scrub aggressively at your jaw where the slimy, disgusting saliva has landed.</p><p>And, oh, you could lick the blood off of the blade, but that would be - awkward. And likely just a tad bit sexual.</p><p>You ate just the other night, and you didn’t consider yourself to be especially hungry. Now that you’re this close to somebody’s flesh and beating heart, though, it’s a different story, and you’re honestly a little bit embarrassed to find yourself salivating. You could very easily eat him, but - there’s a certain kind of satisfaction to prolonging somebody’s inevitable death, and, well.</p><p>Izzy always takes care of this part for you. He knows you’re not fond of gore, and you’ve already got cerulean for him to clean out of your new head-wrap. You don’t really fancy ruining the rest of your clothes.</p><p>More urgent, however, is the fact that you keep letting hunger distract you. Your new friend’s got a bum leg and now a bum arm, but like most trolls he possesses two of each, which he makes very evident when he claws at your face with his remaining functional upper limb. You yelp, toppling backwards, and-</p><p>He screams.</p><p>“Fuck,” you swear, and snatch the veil back from where he caught it in his hand. He’s nicked the edge of it, and there’s a fine tear that leaves the lower half of it tattered. “This was expensive, you pandead degenerate, or don’t you know how fine fabric feels?!”</p><p>You suppose it’s understandable that he doesn’t actually care about your veil when the mushroomed glory of your <em>face</em> is on display, but that doesn’t make it sting any less that you haven’t even gotten to wear it out and it’s already torn.</p><p>You decide to express this by kicking him in the stomach, and then press a boot down on the side of his face, pinning his head to the floor much like yours had been pressed to the wall.</p><p>“I was <em>going</em> to explain,” you grit out, lips pulled back from your bared teeth, “About how the innkeep just so happens to be my ashmate, as well as a number of other things along the lines of investigating in advance whether you’re threatening a person’s inclade to their face, but I’m afraid that I’ve run out of patience. I suppose it doesn’t matter!” You just barely resist kicking him again, and snatch his arm instead, dragging him to the door outside. You’re alone, here, and the knowledge that Izzy isn’t going to be back until tomorrow doesn’t help keep your temper under control for all that it’s convenient for your current purposes. “Since you’re going to die, anyways, but sometimes I just want a little bit of conversation, you know? It’s not as though a revenant can get out much, and that ashmate of mine that you were so keen on culling is a <em>terrible </em>conversationalist.”</p><p>Past the door, loose on its hinges where he kicked it in (unnecessary - this is an inn, it was never locked), and a few minutes out into the sand. You don’t want the smell too close to your hive.</p><p>You talk the whole way, over the honestly very persistent whimpering and groaning he’s emitting. You’d be impressed, if it wasn’t annoying and pathetic. “This is a rebel hideaway, you know! We don’t get very many visitors out here! And everything was going suitably dramatically, too. Don’t you have any sense of self-preservation? Look, I’ll tell you what, I bet we can salvage this.”</p><p>You drop his arm and dust off your poncho, stepping closer to him. “You help with some of the cleanup,” you offer, nudging his cheek with your boot, “And maybe I’ll forgive you!”</p><p>He looks up at you like you’re insane (or possibly just like he’s just seen a revenant), and you frown. “I’m perfectly serious!” you protest, spinning his knife between your fingers. “This is a classic! Honestly, my man, just lick my boots and we’ll be done with this.”</p><p>He takes the hint and acquiesces.</p><p>Ew. This looked cooler in movies. His tongue is coated in olive - he must have bitten himself in the midst of all his flailing, or maybe it’s from when you punched him - and leaves colored trails over your new boots. Why did you think this was a good idea? All you can think now is that your boot is slimy.</p><p>You make a face and wipe the toe of your boot off on his cheek. “Ugh. Valiant effort. Unfortunately, I’ve already gone through all the effort of dragging you out here, and I’m afraid I’m not a good hand with first aid. Don’t worry, however - I’m sure the sun will get you before the revenants.”</p><p>You grin, wicked, and finally lick off the bit of olive blood that’s trailed down the corner of your lips. “We don’t get too hungry during the night-time, after all.”</p><p>It’s noon, when you finally get back home.</p><p>You timed it carefully - you’d gotten carried away after overeating like that and went off on a week-long abstinence bender that has left you foggy with hunger instead. Your relationship with eating is complicated. This sort of thing is why you usually let Izzy take care of it. Regardless, a little bit more patience isn’t much to ask from yourself. It’s the day after one of the only two nights of the week you can count on Izzy having actual customers, and the burning sun is at its zenith. You fish the key out from behind the loose stone in the arch of Izzy’s entry way.</p><p>Your fingers are so clumsy with hunger-fog that you can’t fit the key into the lock properly the first three times, and on the fourth, you tip forward when the door opens in front of you anyways.</p><p>Izzy is there, and he catches you by the arm, narrowly avoiding getting impaled by your horns. You look up, and you can tell even through the filmy quality that your vision has taken on that there’s bags under his eyes. He isn’t even pretending that he’s been sleeping properly. Which makes sense, if he’s awake to meet you in the middle of the day like this.</p><p>Isn’t even pretending that he knows how to talk properly, either, given the way he’s jawing at air like a damn goldfish. You wait for the first half-concocted syllable to crack out of his throat before you interrupt, squinting up at him accusingly.</p><p>“You smell fucking amazing,” you inform him, “Like four courses with dessert,” and, shit. That is not what you meant to say. You were thinking it, yes, but you weren’t supposed to say that.</p><p>“I - I don’t - I can pre-pretend you didn’t,” Izzy offers, and you thump your head against his chest. Drat. You weren’t supposed to say that either. You fucking hate trying to think through the Messiahs-damned hunger blanketing your brain. You’re trying to be clever, but it’s all just meat-meat-meat.</p><p>It’s even harder when you’re supposed to be trying to move. Everything is shifting, and you can’t quite decipher which way it’s going until everything tips completely sideways and you realize Izzy’s flopped you down onto the couch. The front door is closing, lock clicking, and it feels like it only takes the span of one blink before you’re getting hefted up again, head lolling against Izzy’s shoulder.</p><p>Mm. It’s nice to move without having to move, you decide.</p><p>Izzy huffs a laugh that sounds more than a little bit hysterical, and you’re too tired to move your arms, so you gnaw at his shoulder in revenge instead. He’s not wearing his over-vest, though, and you belatedly realize that this was a terrible idea because you’re not sure you want to let go.</p><p>“P-please don’t eat me,” comes from somewhere above you and a little to the left. You blink slowly, lean your head back, and shove your own wrist into your mouth instead. Doesn’t taste nearly as good, but counter-intuitively is probably less likely to lead to your eventual death. </p><p>You blink again, and you’re staring at the ceiling with Izzy dragging your hand out of your mouth as you moan in protest. He’s stronger than you are in the throes of starvation, though, and when you squeeze your teeth in harder he just jabs you in the side, right under where the mushrooms start speckling your torso. It’s enough to make you gasp plaintively -  and coincidentally enough for him to get your hand out. You mull that over for a second. Clever. You can’t muster up the strength to get your hand back up from where it’s flopped, but you can at least glare at it.</p><p>You turn your head to do so, and promptly change your mind to glare at Izzy instead. He’s just - bustling around, like you’re not laying here on this - what are you laying on? It feels like a seating platform, and the carving knife on the side table informs you that it’s probably Izzy’s block. You could stab him with that. Then you could eat him.</p><p>You’re too tired to do that, though, because, like you were thinking earlier, you are laying here wasting away while Izzy just clomps around the room like a particularly graceless and passive-aggressive giraffe. What right’s he got to be passive-aggressive? You’re the one starving to your second death. Besides, you’re <em>better</em> at it.</p><p>The thought of eating Izzy keeps trailing its tantalizing way back across your mind, and you let yourself nightdream (daydream, you suppose, given it’s the afternoon) for a few glorious moments. You’re just about in the middle of the bit where you bite into his arm (he has a lot of muscles in his arms from all the menial, dumb labor he does, you think, which would be particularly delicious) when something yanks at your feet and you yelp in distress.</p><p>“Izzy!” you call for help, and - no, that’s him doing the pulling. You squint, confused, and he waves one of your boots at you. Great. That wasn’t worth actually stuttering at him over. You’re the one that’s good at talking. And he’s still close enough that you can smell him. It’s not fair.</p><p>“Izzy,” you complain, and blink in surprise when you’re yanked at again. Right. Two feet. Two boots. Yes. That makes sense. “‘Izizzy,’ I’m hungry.”</p><p>At least mocking his stutter comes close enough to second-nature that it doesn’t require much thought.</p><p>“I - I don’t have anything right - right now,” he hedges, edging over to your side. His stupid hair is covering his blue eye. Why’ve you always got to be staring at the purple one? It looks like Mal’s eyes did, and you hate thinking about her. Izzy should relate. She mindfucked him, too. Probably worse than you, even, though there’s literally no way to tell.</p><p>Then again, everyone else was always so focused on protecting Izzy from the unit of you-and-Mal that they never thought about protecting you <em>from</em> Mal, so maybe he got off easier. Not that <em>you</em> made it easier.</p><p>Regardless, Izzy’s reply is unacceptable. You grope weakly at him and get a handful of pants fabric. Tugging at it is like trying to pull at a damn tree. You should know, you’d gone all the way to the jungle treeline while you were gone. It was horrid and wet. Your mushrooms loved it.</p><p>“I’m hungry,” you repeat, “And you smell like you come from somewhere with five stars to its name, which - which is absolutely not fair, because you look like a two-star at <em>best</em>. I don’t know what Miss Samash sees in you. But you don’t need all your bits, okay? Listen - listen, this is important. You <em>don’t need</em> all your parts.”</p><p>He wraps a hand around your wrist, and you don’t quite hold back the whimper. He’s warm, and he smells mouth-watering, and you can practically feel the blood pulsing beneath his skin, hot and-</p><p>“I’ll go to-tomorrow,” he assures you, brows furrowed, “When - when the sun sets. I - I promise, Tink, I - I just - I didn’t know when you’d be back - I don’t have anything for you n-now.”</p><p>He just peels your fingers off of his pants, and presses you back into the reclining platform by your shoulders. The pressure is burning handprints into your skin, cloak and scarf be damned. Actually be damned, you realize belatedly, because you’re not wearing them anymore, just a loose undershirt that’s light enough to barely even brush against your mushrooms.</p><p>“You’re a selfish bastard,” you groan, “Fuckin’. Feral cullbait. Asshole. I hate you. You’re always hurting me - why are you so <em>awful?</em>”</p><p>He winces, and you lift your lips back into a snarl when you see the way he’s cringing into his shoulders. Hasn’t got his high-collar vest on, though, so he can’t hide practically his whole face. Loser. He doesn’t even <em>have</em> to hide his face, and he still does it. Meanwhile <em>you’re</em> stuck with a veil for the rest of your damn life. Unlife. Whatever.</p><p>“S-sorry,” he mumbles, and you want to say something back, something terrible, something that’ll make him go away and stop touching you and being all warm and filled with blood right next to you and <em>torturing</em> you -</p><p>You blink, though, and the next time you open your eyes, he’s gotten away from you. Somewhat, anyways - he’s passed out in a wooden chair on the other side of the room, facing you but much too far to reach.</p><p>“Fff- fuck,” you snarl, and twist yourself off the platform anyways - your shoulder hits the edge of the side table when your arm remains pulled across to the seat-back of the platform, trapped by a handcuff wrapped around your wrist, though, and the delicate frills of a mushroom split like a wound. You make a wordless sound, sharp and mournful, and claw at your wrist desperately, twisting away from the offending furniture. The handcuff is wrapped in a rag, padded for the protection of your wrist, but the side table has no such protections.</p><p>Izzy scuffles behind you, thumping across the floor until he’s looming behind you and you cringe into the platform.</p><p>“Don’t <em>touch</em> me,” you sob, pulling at your arm, “Don’t fuckin’ - don’t - I hate you - should never’ve come back - you’re just locking me up again, you stupid - you - I’m not some <em>animal</em> -”</p><p>Hands wrap around your waist like iron bars, and you screech at the top of your lungs as Izzy lifts you back onto the platform. You try to thrash, but all you manage is to punt him in the knee - not a particularly effective attack when you’re wearing just socks and feel weak as a baby meowbeast.</p><p>Izzy backs away as soon as he puts you down, making some sort of weird hissing noise - you can’t tell if he’s trying to talk or signalling for you to shut up, so you narrow your eyes at him and hiss back, louder and rattling.</p><p>He flinches, full-bodied, and stumbles back towards the door.</p><p>“It’s - I’ll go - you tried to b-bite me,” he trips over excuses, “I’m - I’m going to go - get you food, Tink, it’s - it’s fine, it’ll be f-fine-”</p><p>He’s still stuttering when he shuts the door behind him, lock clicking, leaving you chained to the stupid front room couch like a dog he’s left in a kennel.</p><p>You make like a dog and howl into the pillows until you’re too exhausted to stay awake.</p><p>Hours later, Izzy trips into the building when he leans too hard on the door, expecting it to have significantly less give. This is just enough of a shock that he doesn’t notice you, standing and free and so angry that it’s thrown you straight into ‘clearheaded’ in the absence of walking, talking meat to distract you, and <em>if he thinks he can just chain you up again, you’re going to </em>show <em>him-</em></p><p>“Wh-what-?”</p><p>Oh, but you fucking <em>missed</em> him, is the worst part. You don’t let him get much further before you’re throwing yourself into his arms, clutching at the back of his cloak with trembling fingers. He nearly drops his bags in his haste to grab at your shoulders.</p><p>“Izzy!” you exclaim. “You never let me explain, you brute! You wouldn’t believe what happened before - a troll came by, and, oh, I was just trying on my new veil, and he went and attacked me for no reason!”</p><p>You don’t have it on now, having spread it carefully over your desk in the hopes that maybe Izzy could fix it later, and it makes it all the easier to draw his attention to the gash of blue still dripping sluggishly at your throat when you sniff, miserable. You never heal right anymore.</p><p>Izzy pushes you back a little, and your hands go to his wrists.</p><p>“Izzy - ?” you ask, surprised. Is he pushing you away? But, no, he’s just biting his lip in that familiar way that says very clearly to you that trying to get him to talk right now would be - well. Unproductive at best. He presses a thumb to your jaw, cueing you to tilt your chin higher so he can see the cut. You let him, leaning into his wrist with a hum. “What are - oh, oh, I’m fine - or, I am now, really, I can take care of myself. Besides he wasn’t looking for <em>me</em>.”</p><p>This is the best part, you need him to pay attention to this. His head jerks up, confused, and he opens his mouth.</p><p>It takes a moment, during which you fight to avoid sinking your claws into his wrists with impatience, but he speaks. You have to be nice. You have to be nice for this part.</p><p>“Wh-what happened?” he asks. “What was he - was it - did I lead someone back? I’m - I’m really s-sorry, Tink, I can’t believe-”</p><p>“No!” you exclaim, and you genuinely have to bite your lip to turn your smile into a worried frown. “Not you! Not you, he was looking for - oh, he said it was <em>Miss Samash</em>, Izzy!”</p><p>Izzy goes pale, wan, and you want to scrape your claws down his face. Why didn’t he look like that when you came up to him, injured and upset?</p><p>Be nice.</p><p>He’s jawing at air like a moron, and you press onward. “Everything is fine, of course! I cleaned it up. I thought, oh, I didn’t realize at first why he was here, but he seemed so threatening - well,” you say, like that’s that, “Of course I had to take care of it. I know how important she is to you.”</p><p>Izzy lets go, dragging his hands out of your fingers, and presses his hands to his mouth. He’s upset. Okay, that’s understandable. You can give him a minute before it stops being understandable.</p><p>“‘Izizzy,’ you stuttering moron. I <em>fixed</em> it,” you firmly insist again, and he takes a ragged breath, nodding.</p><p>“Th-thank you,” he tells you, and you can feel some of the tension in your shoulders ease. “Th-thank you, Tink, I - I’m so-sorry I wasn’t - here - I was just -”</p><p>“Working, I imagine?” you finish, glib. “Or was today for one of your outings with Miss Samash?” That was fairly measured in tone. You’re doing well. “Regardless, I’m not a glass vase, you ridiculous lamp post, I’m not going to just let somebody like that push me around.”</p><p>You press your fingers carefully to your cut as you talk, casual, and Izzy nods quickly.</p><p>“S-still-” he stutters, “Can- can I look at that? Please? It’s - I know you don’t - heal the same, and - and it took forever to fix when -”</p><p>You flinch, and he cuts himself off before he says Nebuka’s name.</p><p>“- Last time,” he finishes, and grabs your wrist. When you quirk your lips into a smile, he relaxes a bit, pulling you towards the first aid kit in the bathroom.</p><p>You spend the next fifteen minutes alternating between preening, wincing, and trying not to eye the pulse at Izzy’s throat with too much interest.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Um! Thanks for reading! I can honestly say that I don't know why you did, so please let me know what the hell you thought in the comments! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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